


swim along, swim along

by kaneklutz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bad Science, Character Study, M/M, Mild Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No beta we kayak like Tim, bad metaphors, everything is mild it's a very mild fic, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaneklutz/pseuds/kaneklutz
Summary: "He’s been drowning his whole life, and now more so than ever."-"If there was one thing Martin could say about himself, it was that he excelled at keeping afloat. "(Notes on swimming, floating, drowning, and the pros and cons of each.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	swim along, swim along

**Author's Note:**

> it's raining and I left the windows open. whoops.
> 
> warning for uh bad science taken from a hank green tiktok. if you know the one, say hi in the comments!

He’s been drowning his whole life, and now more so than ever.

The rain is coming down in buckets, and the windows are streaked with water. Above, the sky is dark, thick grey clouds blocking out any hope of respite, any hope of sunshine.

Jon sits on the tiny porch with a roof that leaks and, whenever he adjusts his weight, floorboards that creak ominously. The paint is flaking off them, revealing dark wood under patchy eggshell blue.

In times like these, he used to sing. Georgie had called him her songbird in university, because he always stress-sang or hummed under his breath when he was studying. Any song, it didn’t matter as long as it was catchy and he had the lyrics well memorized enough. 

Too much time had passed since he’d sung. Now, he can’t recall the last time he’d hummed along to a tune. 

Tim and Sasha had dragged him out to karaoke, ages and ages ago. He watched them sing loudly and off-key to some atrocious pop number, and then showed them all up with a surprisingly good, if mildly drunk version of “You are My Sunshine.” It had been his comfort piece. 

He regrets letting things like that go. Singing. Comfort. Georgie. Youth.

Happiness. 

When he was little, living with his grandmother had been its own adventure, in a way. Perhaps adventure wasn’t quite the right word. Fight? Quest? Struggle? 

The words filled his head, his lungs, suffocating him as the world spun around him and his vision turned spotty and faded at the edges-

And like Poseidon, bursting from the ocean with his barnacle crown and shining trident, the word comes to him. 

Trial. It had been a trial, to say the least. 

She was never cruel to him, not even negligent, really. Nothing she did or said could’ve been the root of some long-buried childhood trauma. 

No, she was just a woman who had lost her child, and was unprepared to have to raise another as hers. That wasn’t her fault, nor was it his. Everything she did, she did for a reason, and he was well aware of it. 

Having said all that, it was relieving to finally leave her. Neither party felt anything other than a slight pang of remorse, for all that they hadn’t said and now, would never say. 

His work at the institute too, it had been terrifying. Being promoted to Head Archivist, when he didn’t know the first thing about archiving, and the previous person in that position had died. In the early days, he’d spent a good deal of time alone, with the door to his office locked, head pressed against his knees as he fought against everything just to breathe. 

Later on, of course, it had gotten much worse. And it was almost funny, how his old fears had been about whether or not he was doing a good job, and his new fears–

Well. 

But he was still here. Despite it all, he’d made it through. With scars, yes. With new habits and triggers and fears he didn’t think he’d ever leave behind, yes. But he was here, and real, and alive. 

“Jon, come inside. You’ll freeze to death out there, or at least get sopping wet, and we don’t have enough towels to spare for that.” 

Martin’s voice floats from within the safe house, and Jon, though he couldn’t yet admit it, relaxes at the sound. To him, no matter what, Martin would always be hope, safety. A second chance, even when he didn’t deserve one. 

A lifeline, to pull him to shore.

* * *

If there was one thing Martin could say about himself, it was that he excelled at keeping afloat. 

To take it literally, yes, he was quite good at swimming. He’d always enjoyed it, even when he didn’t really enjoy having to see himself. There was something about the water, about floating, and something about sinking to the bottom of a pool and closing your eyes. 

It was freedom in the worst way possible, in the way the last man on earth is free, no longer bound by humanity’s chains. There is no one to police his actions, no one to condemn him for whatever crimes he might commit, no one to even justify his crimes as such. 

No one to hold him at night. No one to talk to, no one to see, hear, no one at all. 

Loneliness turned pervasive, turned suffocating and ever-present.

That is how he feels at the bottom of a pool. 

But to take it figuratively, Martin is also good at keeping himself afloat in other areas. 

Emotionally. Mentally. Financially. Physically. 

He’s good at coasting, at making himself seem hapless and affable, like something that you want to trust, want to help. He learned long ago that people were the easiest way to get a fast track to anything you wanted in life. Working hard on something was all well and good, and he did plenty of that, but sometimes it was just easier, for everyone involved, really, if he just… got what he wanted through other means. 

Nothing nefarious, of course. Just good ol’ Martin, the adorable fussy idiot, who needed a little help sometimes but was alright, really. 

And this worked in the opposite direction too. He never got too close to people, not close enough to make himself seem less than palatable. Because if everyone likes sweet, tea-making Martin, who stammered and blushed easily, then it stands to reason that they wouldn’t like snarky, coffee-chugging, harsh Martin, who was incredibly low on empathy and let his mask down. 

It made sense, after all. 

The problem occurs when he starts to drown, and doesn’t notice. 

Martin read somewhere in a book when he was small, in some old library, that humans couldn’t tell when they were suffocating, under the right circumstances. 

See, human bodies were built to ensure that they were breathing _out_ carbon dioxide and breathing in _not_ carbon dioxide. This was all well and good, and normally suffocation meant you couldn’t breathe in, thus the alarm bells in your system. 

However, if a human was breathing out carbon dioxide and breathing in something else, it wouldn’t hurt nearly as much. Helium, nitrogen, argon, all of these were perfectly good temporary substitutes for oxygen. You might get dizzy, sure, a little sick, but you’d be fine. You’d lay down, feeling tired, and your eyes would drift shut, and then…

Well, you just wouldn’t wake up again. 

Martin didn’t realize he was suffocating until it was too late. 

Martin didn’t listen to the warning signs, until it was too late. 

This time, he got lucky. This time, someone cared enough to pull him out of the pool. Maybe the next time, he wouldn’t be quite so lucky. 

But for now, he gathers himself, clutches to the ladder at the edge of the swimming pool. Jon’s here now, with him, and he wasn’t going to leave Martin alone. And in turn, Martin wouldn’t leave Jon alone. 

A quid pro quo of love. 

“Come inside,” he calls out, knowing that Jon will hear him. 

It will be alright. He isn’t drowning anymore. He’s not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, happy new year in advance!


End file.
